Castlevania: The Living Prince
by Daryl Falchion
Summary: It's been a few months since their tragic loss...and those affected are starting to heal if only barely...but then they see a shadow, a whisper...is this hope...or is this doom? SotN
1. Introduction

_Castlevania: Symphony of the Night_

_The Living Prince_

_By Daryl Falchion_

_"…Point of no return…see how the buildings burn…adrenaline keeps me in the game…wilder than your wildest dreams…get closer to the thrill…only time will kill…what's in your eyes…is so alive…" (Adrenaline; Gavin Rossdale) _

_The Enlightened's Lost Tome of Wisdom (Vol. 17, pg. 895): Guilt—Guilt is the providence of both the wicked and the innocent. The wicked feel a slight flutter of remorse but it is swiftly smothered by their vile nature. The innocent suffer far greater, for it is their nature to doubt their own goodness even when the fault does not lie with them. _


	2. Prologue

_Prologue_

_Nocturne in the Moonlight_

He came from the sea in the stillness of the night. He gave no thought as to how he could rise from the glittering blue-black waves—he just appeared like the wind. As full as a silver coin the moon shone upon his form, the molten beams dancing off his golden hair. He ascended the hill with the ease of a spider and stood a moment upon its precipice.

Then he turned to the mansion cresting the hill, his feet making no sound as he approached. His tall black boots did not disturb the leaves as he strode through the courtyard of stone. Everything seemed ignorant of his existence as if he were but a shadow or mere thought. His gloved hands touched the doors to the mansion.

Or not exactly touched. Slipped through. The rest of his body met no resistance as well, and he stepped within the main foyer. No one strode within the halls nor was there any sound. It was as silent as his own steps as he ascended a set of stairs. As its height he encountered three hallways and, with just a hint of hesitation, proceeded to the far left.

The chandelier, halfway down, lit the hallway poorly leaving most of it in darkness. That did not halt or even slow his gait. If anything, his stride lengthened as he neared his destination. Already he could hear her. The soft sounds of her breath, her words and her tears. He waited to hear her for…months? Years? He'd forgotten how long…

And there was the door. Again, he did not know how he knew that. He just did. Had there not even been sounds to guide his feet, he would have found her. With the same ease with everything else, he passed through the door and slipped behind a crimson curtain. He was not ready just yet…

His breath (if it could be called that) caught in his throat at sight of her. Just as he remembered her…That same fiery spirit, that same lovely figure. He smiled faintly as she cursed while hurling a hairpin to the carpeted floor. Her sun-shaded hair tumbled down her shoulders. That smile deepened as she slipped off her shoes with a grumble.

That smile faded to a frown however as the moonlight revealed her tears.

He would have her smiling again before the night was out.

"Stupid old men…and their stupid speeches…and their stupid parties…." She dropped onto the couch, tears staining the pillow. "….what do they really know of you…" His heart—what was left of it—wrenched at witnessing her pain and seeing her tears. It was for him, he knew. He did not like being the source of her sorrow. He would have to change that…

After a few minutes, he heard gentle snores so he abandoned his hiding place. Carefully, he stepped over to her prone form, hands folded under her cheek. Genuflecting, he gazed at her sweet face for a long time. He was so still that birds might have mistaken him for a statue in the mansion's courtyard and perched on him. His hands hovered over her hair.

Without ever touching her, he rose and crossed the distance to a piano in the far corner of the room, ebony cape fluttering behind like a host of ravens. He glanced back once at the still-slumbering beauty then set himself down on the bench. He stretched then briefly observed the piano.

There was no search for music sheets; no pause to ponder notes. His fingers glided onto the keys, drawing a string of poignant notes. A smile slid into his lips and he pressed with greater force. The music intensified, a symphony of haunting. It was beautiful as the night was beautiful—mysterious and dark, alluring and mesmerizing.

No error was made; not a note was sour.

She stirred but did not awaken, frown lines creasing her forehead. He did not halt when he came to the end of song but hurled himself into another. This one was slightly darker. It was a song of death and loss, a story he knew so well. The notes were harsher, louder, but with the same terrible beauty as the first song.

Before his fingers hit the last note, he heard a gasp. Smiling softly, he titled his head so he could see her climb to her feet. Her hands covered her mouth, emerald eyes shimmering. She did not immediately speak. She did not seem to quite believe what she saw. Giving an almost indiscernible nod, his fingers reached for the keys to commence another song.

"….Oh, my god….is it really you?"

He did not answer her—wasn't even sure if he could anyways—but he did swing around on the bench. For a moment she said not another word, scrutinizing him. He bore it without burden, just glad to have her near. The music had pleased her he could tell. He wasn't sure where he'd learned how to play but the skill felt as ingrained as walking.

As if afraid he would disappear like a wisp, she advanced upon him. Sharp hope shined her eyes. Swallowing, she sat down on the bench beside him. Each time she tried to speak emotion choked the words silent. Words didn't matter to him. She was happy. He had made her happy. Why that mattered he neither knew nor cared.

"I've missed you for so long!" she gasped.

He'd missed her too but was uncertain how to convey that.

Then with a sudden burst of inspiration, he leaned forward…to kiss her? Yes, that was his desire. To kiss her. So deeply he'd remembered everything. So passionately she'd never want him to stop. For the briefest flutter of a heartbeat he felt the pressure, the first he'd experienced since he could recall.

Then there was nothing, nothing at all.


	3. Scene 1

_Scene 1_

_Young Nobleman of Sadness_

The whip snapped out like a flash of lightning, its wielder, Richter Belmont, grinning widely. The target, Trevor Belmont, nimbly stepped aside however and retaliated with a whip strike of his own. His' missed the mark too, as Richter performed his famous Belmont leap and landed behind a fountain. Pulling the whip between his hands as was characteristic of him, Trevor stepped to the other side of the fountain.

For a moment Trevor felt the past and present merged—it was not Richter Belmont that stood there...To him, it was another man. A man of golden hair and eyes, pale face. A man that bore some characteristics with him. His shook his head of brown hair, trying to dispel the image. It disappeared as it always did, but with great difficulty.

The water from the fountain partially concealed both Belmonts' faces. Slowly they circled the fountain after one another like two hands on a clock chasing each other. When Richter's whip flew across the gushing water, scattering it like broken glass, it encountered Trevor's. The whips rebounded and sent the water splattering on both vampire hunters.

Trevor's blue eyes met Richter's. Then they both burst out in laughter.

While the younger Belmont's laughter continued on for several minutes and kept him bent over, Trevor's ended abruptly as his mind careened back to the past. He remembered little of his father. The man was cloaked in mystery. But there was enough from his days of fighting aside him and then their brief struggle in the Clock Tower to torment his days.

Enough to remember the feeling of plunging the blade into the dhampire's heart...

A hand fell on his shoulder. "Hey, are you alright?" Richter asked.

Trevor brushed it off. "It's nothing." His own hand lightly touched the space above his heart, remembering a time when he'd been stabbed there. He'd barely survived...His father had not been so fortunate. Richter's face contorted, concerned, so the older Belmont lifted his whip, tightening it. Effecting a smile he didn't feel, he said, "Let us get away from the fountain, yes?"

Richter wrung out his shirt and Trevor did likewise. Then the two vampire hunters walked for a few minutes towards the Tepes Mansion. They came upon an empty courtyard and resumed the fight. Trevor attacked first, spinning his whip before him for momentum briefly then letting loose. In classic Belmont style Richter back flipped then his own whip whirled out to his opponent. Trevor was caught unaware and his next strike was rendered ineffective.

Breathless, Trevor responded with a few short attacks. Deflected. "You are not without skill."

The other Belmont laughed, that easy smile he was known for in place. "Was that supposed to be a compliment?"

Not favoring Richter with an answer, Trevor cracked his whip then launched into one of his patented 'tornado' attacks. His concentration faltered again though and the cycle ended prematurely. Richter capitalized and latched his whip around Trevor's wrist forcing his opponent to surrender the whip. It was hardly the end of the match that either expected. Richter boasted that he was the better warrior but even he was hard pressed to say that he'd imagine Trevor to fall so easily.

Hands wrapped around his torso, Trevor gazed out across courtyard his blue eyes taking in everything yet his mind registering nothing. He did not care for the fight, not really anyways. Normally the idea of facing a great vampire hunter like Richter would intrigue him but right now his thoughts were far away. Back in the Clock Tower with his father, the man's blood on his hands, his heart beating its last...

"You got to stop doing that to yourself. You're going to go crazy." Richter stood by his side, passing the man's whip back to him. Trevor took it without really noticing it. Frown lines creased Richter's forehead, his easy smile gone. "You can't help what happened. I know that. Maria knows that. Adrian—"

"Is dead." It felt so weird to say that even though it had been months. Month of self-incrimination, months of hellish guilt. Part of him almost, if but for a moment, felt the dhampire's presence, like he was watching over them. The rational part told him that he was losing his mind. Trevor shook his head again, hands tightening over the whip. "Whatever you say will not remove the stain of blame from me."

Richter let out a sigh. "Come on, man, you got to let it go. No one blames you."

"I blame myself and that is enough."

Richter had no answer for that. The wind stirred both their heads of brown hair and their leather clothing in rhythm. Richter was right, of course. The more he dwelled on what happened the greater chance of him being felled by a beast that was neither zombie nor skeleton or Dracula himself—he'd fall to guilt. Adrian was lost to them, and the sooner he'd accept that the better. But it was so very hard...

They'd put off any funerals in the unrealistic hope that Adrian would suddenly, miraculously reappear. When it became apparent that wasn't happening Maria had reluctantly agreed to a brief gathering in honor of her late husband. The banquet had been bittersweet. Speeches of adoration, gifts to all of them, deepest condolences...Trevor could barely stand it. Maria had not shed a single tear, her face seemingly carved out of stone, but he'd seen the pain in her green eyes. Richter had cracked jokes but even his voice was flat. Annette had wept and the twins were constantly asking when the 'golden warrior' would return.

No, putting his father out of his mind would not be so easy...

"Let's give it another go. I'll even let you win this time!"

Trevor laughed, willing himself to respond. "No need to try—it comes naturally to you."

The two vampire hunters spread apart, giving room to gauge one another. Despite what he said, Richter did not hold back, his whip fast and furious. Trevor matched his stride, his whip encountering Richter's and deflecting it. Then he spun into another of his tornado attacks, forcing Richter to give ground. His opponent was not to be defeated so easily however and proceeded to shower his opponent with whip strikes left and right' the sheer ferocity shook Trevor out of the attack.

Immersed in the heat and immediacy of battle, Trevor could forget his pain and guilt. It was part of the reason he'd agreed to them. Richter claimed that they should be ready for whenever any of their enemies should return. It was sound logic and Trevor could not dispute it. But that was only partially why he agreed. The older Belmont needed this freedom from thought, from self-incrimination.

The freedom was short-lived. Flicking his whip low, Richter tripped Trevor. The vampire hunter went down with a gasp, his own whip flying from his grip. A shadow draped over him—Richter's, his hand extended in an offer to help Trevor up. As much as he fought to keep the memories from surfacing, the vampire hunter couldn't help but think _'Is this how Adrian felt as I stood there, not while reaching out with a hand but with a blade posed to pierce his heart?'._

"You're doing it again."

Trevor scratched his head and shrugged. Declining the offer of a hand up, the vampire hunter climbed to his feet, claiming the whip as he did. The vampire hunter brushed the dust off with a brown-gloved hand. No matter how many times he reminded himself of how his living in the past was killing his present, Trevor couldn't free his mired mind from the hell of that moment. The moment he'd...

"Hey." Richter waved a hand in front of his sparring partner. "Snap out of it."

"Sorry...I just..." With a sigh, Trevor gazed out into the gray morning sky. It fit his mood perfectly. "I'm afraid I'll have cancel our practice today. I cannot...concentrate."

"Don't worry about it...We already know who's better anyway."

That comment did exactly as Richter had planned—it drew his friend out of the morose mood long enough to playfully punch him on the arm. Richter gave a mock cry of pain and donned a hurt expression. Trevor smiled. He appreciated the carefree nature of his friend...and descendant, truth be told. How it should be that a man three hundred years younger than him would be his sparring partner was so beyond possibility Trevor couldn't formulate an explanation.

Shaft probably had an answer for that, but not one he was likely to enjoy.

"Come on," Richter said as he rolled his whip up. "Let's go find Maria and head to my place for supper. Annette will have my hide if we're late."

Trevor smiled and nodded, pretending to be interested in the other man's tales of his wife's temper and the energy of his twins. The various animals that visited the Tepes Mansion, squirrels and birds of all sorts, fled at their approach. Leaves floated past, one even slapped into Richter's face, causing both Belmonts to laugh. Richter kept up the chatter, giving his friend a good-natured elbow once when the other man failed to answer to an inquiry.

_Why wasn't I able to break free of Shaft's spell before I struck that mortal blow?_

"Maria?"

Torn from his black thoughts again, Trevor followed Richter's concerned gaze. Still clad in the green gown she'd worn at the banquet the night before, Maria ran down the steps of the mansion. Her golden hair hadn't been brushed. Tears streaked her face and it startled Trevor to realize that the tears were not of sadness—but of glee!

"Richter! Trevor! I—I—I!" Maria gasped as she hurried to them, nearly tripping on a strewn branch. Richter helped steady her, giving Trevor a confused look. Trevor, however, had no answers for him, his blue-eyed gaze going to the vampire huntress. She coughed for a few minutes before choking out "I've seen him!"

Him...No name was needed.

Richter and Trevor exchanged glances. What Trevor felt inside was written all over the other vampire hunter's face—Maria was going mad with grief. She'd been so strong through it all. She was just newly a wife; too soon to be widow. The sight of her wild hope stabbed into Trevor's heart just as surely he'd stabbed his father. Just one more sin he'd have to learn to live with...

"Maria, that can't...that just isn't possible. I'm sorry."

"I saw him with my own eyes! He played the piano...and smiled at me...and kissed me."

"It was a dream Maria, brought on by the portraits of him at the banquet. Nothing more."

Again guilt scrapped along the soul of Trevor Belmont. To see the pain and the despair cloaked in hope...and all because of him. Oh how he dearly wished he could trade places with Adrian—die in his stead. Adrian had a wife, a life, those that loved and depended on him. What had he? All Trevor had was now ash and dust, all he knew and loved buried. The merciless touch of encroaching time.

What was the point of his existence?

Maria was openly weeping now and not with joy this time. She kept protesting that it wasn't a dream but her faith faded. As gently as he could, her brother-in-law led her back up the steps to the mansion. He threw Trevor a sympathetic look, designed to consol. Because of the earnestness in the expression, Trevor forced his to be calm though inside his heart was in turmoil. No need for them to see that any more than strictly necessary. He'd done enough damage...

Alone in the courtyard, the vampire hunter slumped onto the edge of the fountain. He eyed his hands. The leather gloves frayed from his many bouts with the creatures of the night. In his mind's eye they discolored becoming a sharper, brighter shade—that of crimson, that of blood. His father's blood...

His hands started shaking.

"What kind of monster slays his own father?" he whispered to the winds.

Was that the reason he was brought back? To murder his own flesh and blood? Trevor took a few calming breaths. Richter was right. He kept replaying his pain in his mind, the moment...How was he ever to heal if he kept doing that? But, then again, how could he escape this prison of pain and guilt? Time didn't always heal all things...

Trevor sighed and rose, hands dropping to his sides. If he could just get through today perhaps tomorrow would be less torture. They said that guilt does subside and pain does ease, after all. The vampire hunter had a hard time believing that right about now, his gaze drifting to the image of his own face: haggard, worn, bent, broken...

That was to be expected, he supposed. What he had not expected however...

Another face. Of golden eyes and hair, pale face...

"Adrian?" He spun around.

But he was alone in the courtyard with only the wind to answer him.


	4. Scene 2

Scene 3

Path of the Departed

Silence descended upon the leaf-strewn courtyard like a funeral shroud. The Man with the Whip had glanced around, puzzled, for a while. Then with a sigh, he vacated the ledge and disappeared into the manor. The observer stood very still for several moments longer then he too, moved, taking a seat on the ledge himself. His own gaze peered into the fast-flowing water…who was it that looked back?

He had known, last night, when he'd actually tasted her. Her lips and his. As one. It had sent a jolt through his entire being, with a rush of memories flooding back. But the moment was all too brief, faster than the flash of an eyelash and then it was gone and with it, him. He was back to square one.

As he sat pondering this and the insanity of his existence he heard a noise. At first, he'd thought the Man with the Whip had returned. For some reason that inspired blinding fear in him, so he set to scurrying away when someone marched past, but not the one he thought. No, he did not quite believe his eyes. Yet they told him no lie. Right across his path, carrying a very familiar looking sword and with his ebony cloak disrupting the leaves, was a man who looked just…him.

With powerful hands, the Man Who Looked like Him tore down the door to the manison, rending it from its iron hinges and vanished within. Curiosity, of the Man with the Whip, the Man Who Looked like Him and…Her, guided his soft-footed steps to the entrance where he followed. It distressed him that the other doors within the manor had been left in a similar mangled state. He looked aghast when he bent to feel the pulse of an elderly maid. There was none.

As he sneaked silently after the "doppelganger" he found his path drawn short as his eyes were riveted on a few paintings. There was a lovely family portrait of pretty blonde woman with two adorable kids, a son and daughter each, and her husband, a hunter by the looks of his garments, one who bore a stunning resemblance to the Man with the Whip.

Then his mind careened even further when he spotted a painting of the radiant blonde woman, the one he'd been so near to and yet still so far away. That sweet voice. The shine in her green eyes. That kiss. The connection between himself and her could not be denied, so fierce it was that it nearly brought him back to himself.

He knew he knew them, just naught how he knew them.

His fingers lovingly traced the arc of her hair, the oval of her eyes, anywhere, though his hand nearly passed right through. His trek with the Man Who Looked Like Him was momentarily forgotten. He was a shell of a man; literal as it was figurative. That moment of serenity was again lost, this time perhaps for forever.

Then the ring of steel brought him back to his senses.

What dark designs did the "doppelganger" have in store for this family and for Her?

Again with footsteps too soft for sound, he sped up the staircase and down the hall. Though he didn't know what caused the connection or what portended still he sought to protect it. After all, what else had he left? And hunting down the Man Who Looked Like Him might provide his tormented soul with some answers, bring some sanity to this half-life.

Inside an immaculately neat room dozed the Man with the Whip, that very whip clutched beneath his gloves. He hadn't even undressed; slept still in the clothes he wore while he fought the Man in the Painting. Again, he felt a pang of remembrance, memory danced in his mind's eye. But this time something horrible lurked beneath the pleasant familiarity, something that chilled him straight to the core.

And then his gaze shifted to the Man Who Looked Like Him…

A sword held suspended in the air, poised to strike. Another flash of memory burned him, of swords and blood and death. A man, standing over him. A sword, high in the air. That blade swinging downwards, delivering the blow, to him.

"No, stop!"

Was that his voice?

Like a surge of power he rushed forward, clamping a hand on the hilt and halting its deadly progress. The Man Who Looked Like Him gapped briefly then glared and tugged on the sword. Those identical facial features twisted with hatred, as the observer did not let go, instead fighting harder to keep the blade from reaching its target. They struggled for control neither wresting it from the other. It was a perfect stalemate but it did not last.

A whip lashed out and both men dropped the sword. It clanged to the hardwood floor loud enough to wake the dead. And waking the dead was a perilous thing to do around these parts.

"What the hell?!" the hunter shouted, a look of askewed amazement and horror on his face. His shoulder-length brown hair was in disarray and his clothes were badly wrinkled but he still gave the presence of a hunter, particularly because his hands clutched that deadly whip in a way that left no doubt that he knew how to use it.

The doppelganger growled, grabbed his sword and fled out the door, his footsteps loud as he was down the hall.

Silence reigned between the two men, the observer and the observed. The observer was stunned and stared down at his hands as he realized he had managed to touch reality something that had been lost to him after that moment with her. Apparently only moments of great need or desire could transcend the barriers between the flesh and ghosts. And what of his doppleganger? What gave him the power to overcome the boundaries that he, the observer was bound to? What made him the two of them so alike in appearance and not in any way in action?

"It cannot be..." whispered the Man with the Whip. His brown eyes glistened. He extended a hand.

Past and present merged. Him, on the floor, sword poised for his heart. Him, here, with the whip in the other hand. It came all rushing back, the very moment he'd shrugged off the mortal coil...at the hands of this man, this...son of his. This, his murderer.

Letting out a scream to shatter glass, the observer followed the path of his doppleganger out into the night.


End file.
